Failure
is
what I
have always been—
tried to measure your divinity
length of your eyebrows, portions of your voice
I multiplied illusions, added nonsense, divided my inability to reach a fair form
fate has brutally subtracted me from the possibility of ever grasping what is not meant to be mine, and only mine
miracles are not meant to be understood, I believe, despite our constant attempts to disprove them or to inject our poor vision with
one of their sharp perfections to camouflage their absence in us
I am here, mask off, with my sweet degradation, my echoed deviation from your eternal light, and all of my deformed touches and
distorted chemicals, trying to reach out with this broom-like hand, not to desecrate you, but desiring to catch the healing that is you;
de-existing, to be immersed in the becoming of you
I was never good at math—the more I possess, the less I find home. The more I own, the less I belong. My body isn't enough; my
cells keep deceiving me into deterioration. For what is the point of wishing to construct what emptiness has infected to the very pale
bones? What is, but destruction, the destination of falling down at the speed of darkness? Hearts are no saviors. Troubled minds
cannot be saved. And you cannot use this anatomy to judge me; I know who I am
here I am, face off. Left with nothing but one final belief; though I never unearthed a reason but revenge to pray for. Fear has
constantly won this apocalyptic battle against my sacred. Yet I dare now to believe, looking at the demons you are exorcising,
calling out names and identities—I am merely one.
curses aren't meant to be understood, I conclude, despite my haggard miscarriages to bless them or to squash my irises with one
of the black inked reflections I dream to annihilate in the mirror
destiny paints stories for lonely souls, yet I'm merely a shadow, wandering this margin of no return, to my final decline
I search for meanings, riding my weary hideousness, planting gods along the slide
eyebrows I stole from you, words and roses
spreading numbers of your paradises
across my hell—
to no
damn
avail.
